“How’s it going? Dicksickle?”

“Naked fat woman.”

My cousin, Emmett, created the below video to enter a contest. Watch it. Why? Because it’s very, very good. Why else? It’s Friday! I know you’re not really working. Come on.

Submitted for your approval: Fury of Solace’s application for admission into the Evil League of Evil from Fury of Solace on Vimeo.

Your job’s not over! Show my Emmett how much you liked it by Digging him.

Good job, everybody.

On the advice of some of our friends with children, J and I bought both the book and video version of “The Happiest Baby on the Block,” by Dr. Harvey Karp, a system for calming babies when they are crying or fussy. Karp suggests a series of steps including swaddling your baby and laying the baby on his or her side in order to quiet them and, from our limited experience, it seems to work. After watching the video I walked around the house for a day or two beginning most of my sentences with “Dr. Karp says…”

Last night I was in the kitchen cleaning up after dinner and upon reentering the living room I noticed J had a smirk on his face, the kind that indicates he’s done something amusing and is waiting for me to pick up on it, and before I could ask him what was up I noticed he was holding and rocking our 10-pound dog Mina, who was tightly wrapped in an afghan. “What?” he said, noting my expression. “I swaddled her.”

…two dogs, thousands of miles, tons of parties, many moving trucks, a billion cups of coffee, hundreds of movies (with popcorn) in bed, weekly sessions with The New York Times and “CBS Sunday Morning,” too many conversations to count and one new baby.

Happy anniversary to my favorite boy.

I know this sounds weird, but I loved my hospital stay, and the minute we got home my first thought was that maybe I wanted to go back.

Because I hadn’t anticipated having a C-section, I was prepared for two nights in the hospital, which is nothing, really. Instead I got four. And I adored every minute of it, from the moment the nurse wheeled me into my room a couple hours after the surgery, and said that if I needed anything - anything at all - to call, until the nurse took my last blood pressure reading before we were discharged. I loved that first morning when my nurse came in to help me walk to the bathroom and wash my face. I loved ordering breakfast (pancakes!) from the special hospital room service menu. I loved going for walks around the maternity ward with my new baby. I loved that breastfeeding and baby care classes were offered for all new parents. I even loved Nora’s middle-of-the-night checkups, when they’d wheel her away to the nursery to weigh her or take her temperature. God only knows why they needed to weigh her in the middle of the night but somehow it was comforting to know that the care we were receiving took place 24 hours a day.

Our room was sunny and warm. J slept on a couch and kept our temporary lodging tidy for the duration of our stay. The baby was so sleepy in those first days that I had to wake her up to feed her, not the other way around. She took well to breastfeeding right off the bat, thanks in large part to the fact that nearly every single nurse, and a couple lactation consultants, sat with me to make sure we were doing alright. “How many people have I shown my breasts to, do you think?” I asked J at one point. “A hundred?”

The nurses were also available for all the other questions we had. Are we doing an ok job changing her diapers? How often does she need a bath? They’d sit with us for as long as we needed them. The doctors came and went, too. Doctors for me, doctors for her, telling us we were both doing great, reassuring us, building our confidence. We had visitors in the hospital, our friends and family. When a resident came to remove the staples from my incision the day before we left, she told me it wouldn’t hurt. I didn’t believe her. But you know what? It didn’t hurt. I’m telling you, it was complete euphoria.

But we had to come home, because those are the rules. Don’t get me wrong, I was excited to come home, and for the most part, coming home was wonderful. My parents and little brother were in town for the week and J’s family came to check in, as well, everyone helping us by getting dinner, cleaning up and holding the baby when we needed a break. But I missed the hospital from time to time in those first few days. I’d think things like, “Who is going to check my vitals?” and get a kind of nostalgic.

They tell you all about the “baby blues” in childbirth class and in the books, a condition that involves, very simply, being sad after you have your baby. The feeling doesn’t always make sense to the new mom, the experts say, but is totally normal - after all, her body has just been through a major change, her hormones are raging and she is likely exhausted. Yet there she is with her newborn, a wonderful husband and supportive family, crying for what seems like no reason.

I was sure I wouldn’t experience anything like the “baby blues” but as I found with the whole childbirth experience, you know nothing until you’re there, in it. And so I did find myself inexplicably sad all of a sudden for an hour or two a day those first days home. I think feeling like I wanted to go back to the hospital was a general, impractical feeling that encompassed a lot of other emotions and fears. Taking care of the baby, and myself, had been so easy when there was nothing else to do during my post-delivery days at Yale. My mission had been clear. But once I got home there were packages to open and a house to clean. And I wasn’t allowed to do any of those things due to the surgery. None of my clothes fit and wearing sweatpants all day seemed lazy, not obvious necessity due to my incision and my new body. The baby was everything and I wanted to hold her and watch her make adorable faces in her sleep all the time, but devoting my everything to her was, nonetheless, a foreign notion. I felt strange and tired, but also overjoyed.

Despite the fact that my feeling down was limited to a small portion of every day, I was afraid that the feeling wouldn’t go away. Then, just like the experts suggested it might, it did. I don’t know why. Maybe my hormones stabilized or I talked myself out of the mood. One thing I know for sure is that I finally got it, being a mother. I got it that lying on the couch with Nora for two hours wasn’t just ok, it was my job. I got it that feeding her was going to take up a lot of my life, at least for these first few weeks, and that trying my hardest to perfect the activity was a perfectly legitimate way to spend my time. I got it that because of my surgery, I needed to ask J to do a lot of things for me, even though my recovery has been very easy - that I have to slow down and take care of my body right now no matter how good I feel, to ensure that I stay healthy.

I started looking forward to the little things, like walks down by the water or in nearby parks or car rides out to get coffee. Because I wasn’t allowed to drive the first couple weeks, J and I had to do everything together, a happy side effect.

I remembered that I have friends I can call any time to chat, including friends who have babies, in case I need a little advice or want to share stories. I found comfort in the stories of those who have been there and done it, like the pediatrician who told us about the time his baby, now grown, wouldn’t stop crying. He and his wife went downstairs, poured two glasses of wine, and waited. Or my doctor, who agreed that becoming a mother can be a tough transition, and reminded me that I only have to do that one job for now.

I’m looking forward to possibly getting to know other new mothers in the area, perhaps through some of the programs at Yale, and know that just sitting for an hour or two with them at a breastfeeding support group or an exercise class would make me feel really good.

I’m also looking forward to bigger things, like road trips to visit family and friends.

But for now, I know that we will pass many quiet daytime hours just hanging out. Maybe we’ll read some classics.”A Farewell to Arms,” perhaps. Or, you know, I might revisit Harry Potter if we’re not up for the ultra serious stuff. Whatever is just fine with me. More than fine. I love that I’ve got tons of time on my hands, and very good company.

My contractions started around midnight on Saturday morning, although at first I wasn’t exactly willing to admit they were contractions because that would mean I was in labor, and that would be huge. J started timing them and when he excitedly showed me his perfect handwritten notations, and explained that the contractions were about 10 to 12 minutes apart, I’d say something like, “No, you know what? I think that last one was it. I think it’s over.”

It wasn’t, however, over. I tried sleeping as the beginning was uncomfortable, but not incredibly painful, and I imagined we had a long day ahead. But sleeping was difficult, as I was anticipating the culmination of a long nine months. The end of pregnancy. Birth. Something totally new. After several restless hours we got up and called the hospital. We talked to the doctor on call and decided to remain at home for awhile and see what happened.

While the real thing was much more intense than all the practice sessions, I was happy we’d attended childbirth classes. I breathed, slowly, in and out, trying to picture myself by the water with a glass of wine - the scene I’d chosen when prompted by our instructor during our “deep relaxation” exercises. It turned out that thinking about a glass of wine made me feel like I was going to throw up, so I ditched that imagery, but I kept up with the breathing. It was a distraction method, a way to cope.

When my contractions were 3 to 5 minutes apart and lasting a minute each, we made sure we had everything we needed in the bag we’d packed, got in the car, and headed to the hospital. It was this absolutely beautiful day, about 75 degrees and the sky was a piercing blue. This was not at all what I’d wanted, not at all. I’d pictured being in labor on a rainy day - a Monday preferably - when I could rejoice in the fact that I didn’t have to work, when a day spent in the hospital was perfectly reasonable. But this…a perfect Saturday. It seemed so ridiculous to spend it breathing heavily while sitting on an exercise ball or falling into a deep squat as I felt another contraction coming on in the upstairs hallway, as my husband supported me. What was this? Some kind of joke?

And it turned out that morning’s drive to the hospital was only our first. I was overjoyed when we arrived. Maybe it was the change of scenery, or maybe it was the fact that I tend to like being around trustworthy medical professionals, I don’t know. But after being hooked up to a couple monitoring devices and waiting in the tiny triage room for what seemed like forever, the doctor - one I really liked, thankfully - arrived and announced that I was only two or three centimeters dilated (which prompted a rather loud, “You have GOT to be kidding me”), and it would probably be best for us to head home for a while until I was further along, because hadn’t I said I’d like to wait as long as possible to come to the hospital (yes, I’d said that) and hadn’t I wanted to be at home, rather than cooped up in some room, for the beginning part (yes, I’d said that, too)?

So I got dressed and we picked up our bag and left, and I told myself over and over that my initial instincts were correct. The next few hours passed uneventfully, really, except for the fact that things got more challenging. “Challenging” was a word I’d heard uttered many times in regards to childbirth and I finally got what it really meant. “Challenging,” as in, “If I am not more than 2 or 3 centimeters dilated when we return to the hospital, then, honestly? Let’s just call this whole thing off.” I worked with it the best I could. A long, hot shower. More squats. The exercise ball. The breathing, which was getting louder and louder. J was amazing, helping me any and every way he could. It had only been a few hours, maybe three, since we’d returned home, but I knew it was time to go back, like the doctor said I would, I just knew.

The resident who examined me when we’d, once again, made our way up to the fourth floor triage area, became the first of my many favorite people that day upon announcing that I’d been “doing some hard work” at home and was around 6 centimeters dilated, to which I responded with a resounding “Thank GOD!” but held off on giving him a hug as that would have been somehow too much.

I had been up in the air about an epidural before labor. My attitude was something like, well, if I go in and am close to having the baby, I think I can hold off. I’ve got nothing against pain relief, it just seemed that if I could remain standing up rather than lying in bed, using gravity to my advantage, do it the good old natural way, then why not? That line of thought, which, honestly, seemed very reasonable when childbirth was a theoretical, not actual, part of my life, was abandoned in a heartbeat when I returned to the hospital and discovered I was finally moving along at a decent clip. “I want it,” I explained to the nurse and the resident. “I wasn’t sure before, but now I am. I really, really want tons of drugs, ok?”

The nurse did me a kind service by reassuring me that there was absolutely nothing wrong with my decision. “You’re tired. You’ve been up all night. Let’s say this takes four more hours. Can you do this without pain relief for four more hours?” I managed a smile and hesitated not a moment before saying “No. No, I can’t.”

Because getting pain relief takes a little while once you request it, I was closer to 7 or 8 centimeters when the anesthesiologists administered my epidural. Once it took effect, things got fun, I’m not kidding, and stayed that way. J, in relating the story later, told everyone I got really “chatty.” True. I suddenly wanted to talk birth statistics with the doctor and nurses who were hanging out in my room, and tell the anesthesiologists, “Hey, how fun is YOUR job? People have got to love you.” Lying there in the dim light of the birthing room, as the long, long day turned into night, we finally discussed your name.

It didn’t take long at all before I was ready to push, and at that point I felt ready to do some hard work again, ready for the last stage of labor. When the doctor examined me, however, she found that you were facing up - towards my bellybutton - not down. This is not an ideal position for delivery, but certainly not a deal breaker. The pushing stage just might take longer, she explained. Still, I understood at that point that there was a chance things might not go exactly as planned.

Pushing was hard. I asked J, who acted as counterpart to the nurse during the entire process, for a constant supply of ice chips because my throat got so dry. But at least I finally felt that I was playing an active role, and knowing that the harder I pushed, the sooner I got to meet you was all the encouragement I needed, although everyone in the room provided so much more.

The problem was, no matter how hard I pushed, you remained content where you were, your little heartbeat constant and steady. You were happy and in no danger, but not on your way out. You were situated up under my pubic bone, the doctor said. It had been three hours since I began pushing, and I was doing a great job, they assured me when I asked if there was anything else I could do, but you had barely moved at all. We’d tried pushing on my side, and all on all fours, without any luck. A C-section seemed the best option at this point, my doctor explained.

Leading up to my due date I told a few people that my biggest, perhaps only, childbirth fear was the loss of control - that I’d be at the mercy of the doctor, and if the doctor decided on a surgical birth, I’d have no way to dispute that, even if I didn’t think it was necessary. But as I was discovering with everything that day, what I felt prior to those very first contractions and the beginning of this whole affair was nothing like what I felt during it. First of all, my doctor and nurses were incredible, providing me with such support that I trusted them without question. And as though they sensed my previous concerns, they told me, as they explained the reasons for the C-section, that I had done everything possible to avoid one.

Plus, as I mentioned before, everything had changed when I’d received that life-saving drug earlier in labor, and I was still in an excellent mood. “Ok!” I said. I felt clear-headed and confident. “It’s a little disappointing, but I totally understand.”

The surgery was by no means an emergency, as you seemed content no matter how the labor progressed, so the team began preparations in a relaxed manner. A new anesthesiologist with a head scarf adorned with smiley faces and bright colors - a Grateful Dead-esque accessory - arrived to top off my epidural. I’d feel more numb, he told me, and my heart might race for a few minutes. Feeling completely awesome, it turned out, was another side effect. They could have announced they were going to saw off one of my legs while they were at it and I’m pretty sure I would have responded, “You know what? Whatever you think is best. GO FOR IT.”

They took J aside to prep him. At this point everyone was wearing those paper hats that surgeons wear, just like on TV. I had one, too. “Should I put this hat on?” I asked. “How about I put this hat on?!?” I mean, were we having a party, or what?

The next move was a major transition. I was moved from my bed to a table and wheeled from the dark quiet of my delivery room to a bustling, bright operating room where everyone got ready for the task at hand. I remember thinking that everyone was in such a good mood, chatting about their weekends, for instance, and I felt so totally comfortable with these people. The anesthesiologist, who remained close at hand during the surgery, flipped a switch on a stereo and Bob Marley filled the room. Soon J was sitting by my side in scrubs and a face mask.

Everything I’d learned about C-sections previously and found at all scary just didn’t matter. My hands were secured to the table, at least I think they were, and I was totally naked, I suppose, beyond the sheet they’d set up so we’d be blissfully unaware of the actual surgical procedure going on. But I was completely alert, and I wasn’t nervous in the slightest. J and I talked carelessly, I don’t even remember what about, but I do remember thinking that it was as though we were out having a beer or two. I realized at the time that he was probably trying hard to keep me talking so I’d be distracted from the fact that I was being operated on, and that he was doing such a good job that I was actually into the conversation. And on some other level, some level beyond the drug-induced high and the celebratory atmosphere in the operating room, I was totally aware that I could not love a person more.

I had no idea they’d even begun the procedure. Then we heard a baby cry. We stopped speaking mid-sentence and looked at each other with eyes wide, mouths agape, and the sudden understanding that that was our baby. While you were being quickly examined by the pediatrician on call that night, one of the nurses came by to tell us how cute you were. “Chipmunk cheeks,” somebody said.

We waited, but not long, and suddenly, nearly 24 hours after we’d begun, you were in your father’s arms, blinking in the bright light. I knew then that any preconceived notions I’d had about childbirth didn’t matter at all, nor did the logistics or medical certainties. Because whatever it took to bring you into this world would have ended up being perfect. As “One Love” played and the dutiful doctors finished their work, we said hello, the three of us.

Yesterday, our second day home from the hospital, I sent my husband and father to the drugstore to pick up a product called Soothies - gel pads for nursing mothers that relieve sore nipples.

The fun has begun.

Born 11:49 PM, September 20, 2008
7lbs, 11oz
19.75 inches long

Much more to come but, for now, everyone is doing wonderfully. We are having so much fun with our new baby, who is, to sum it up in one word, amazing.

Yesterday was my 39 week doctor’s appointment and it went uneventfully, as all of my appointments have. Well, I mean, there was that one. About a month ago. When I gained four pounds in the span of one week, and sat there, looking incredulously at the doctor asking “But how…how could this happen,” and she smiled, and told me “Hey, it happens,” and that it was probably fluid buildup and I didn’t need to worry at all, and I suppressed yet another one of those pregnancy thoughts that I’ve been having over the last nine months, that go something like “Yeah, ha! It’s no big deal! FOR YOU IT ISN’T.”

(I ended up losing that four pounds, thus confirming the fluid buildup theory and therefore remaining sane.)

I saw the midwife I’d seen in the first 28 weeks of my pregnancy yesterday, who I love, and who was the fourth practitioner to tell me I’m probably going to have a big baby, and when we got in the car to leave it was all I really wanted to talk about - this big baby situation. I could have talked about it all day, except that J kept reminding me I was having this totally normal, healthy, wonderful pregnancy, and I needed to calm down, which is when I explained to him - calmly - that if he were going to have a baby come out of his vagina, he might be very interested in the fact that a good number of medical experts are using the word “big” to describe it, too.

Honestly, though? While my life at present, and the pregnancy in general, have been full of periods of my asking J, obsessively, truly annoying and unnecessary questions like, “But do you think I’m eating enough fruit?” the gig as a whole has been so easy and yes - truly - fun for me that I’ve got no right, no right in the world, to complain, or question or worry.

Except for the one right, the right of every woman who is pregnant for the first time, who is trying to navigate this totally mysterious and unknown bodily state, which cannot be explained by all the books in the world, certainly not by the Internet and not even by the doctors. You just have to learn.

Which brings me to 39 weeks. 39 weeks, and the three or four weeks before this, all leading to the end, have been distinguished by a general sense of calm as I’m winding down and realizing that I sort of, finally, get this. Where I’m actually welcoming the various aches and pains because I understand they’re bringing me closer to labor. Where I’ve decided not to look things up in books or ask anyone what’s “normal.” Where I finally (and for the love of God, I apologize for using a term like this, a term I’d normally leave to the yoga instructors and meditation experts) trust my body.

I feel calm about the upcoming waiting game, even. Calm knowing that I cannot know when this baby will choose to make her entrance and that it could be any minute now. It could be a week, it could be…weeks.

But despite this calm (because, come on, I’m nine-plus months pregnant, you didn’t think it was all roses, did you?) I am carrying around a lot of weight and there are practical issues that sometimes get in the way of an all-around pleasant demeanor.

Last night I decided to go to the grocery store. I love getting out of the house now that I work at home and I was very much looking forward to this grocery store trip, as pathetic as that may sound. Things started off well in the produce section, got a little trickier as I nearly rammed my shopping cart into people in the cramped aisles (qualities I never possessed while not pregnant, such as gracefulness, have eluded me further the bigger I have become) and by the time I realized, while in the dairy aisle, that I had forgotten to pick up salsa, and that salsa was all the way on the other side of the store, and was thinking do we really need salsa for tacos, I was undeniably grumpy. So when I finally found the salsa and saw that the kind I wanted was on the bottom shelf, and that required bending way over which was a) not easy for me physically and b) undoubtedly an unattractive position for a person in my current state, I was thinking, “You know what? WHAT AM I EVEN DOING HERE AND WHY DOES EVERYONE HATE ME?”

Having finished my shopping I was overjoyed to get out of there, but while waiting to pay in the checkout line, both the cashier and bagger began talking to me. I stiffened for a second, as though it might be possible to physically repel their advances with my unwilling body and mind, because couldn’t they see I wanted - needed - to go home? But before I knew it I was smiling and happily telling them that it was a girl and that, yes, it was my first and that I was due in one week, to which they replied “One week!” and wished me the very best of luck.

And just like that, the world was a joyful place again. I’m used to my emotions flip-flopping so much as of late. Setting off for a long walk, for instance, because I feel amazing and hopeful and good and then, half-way through, coming to grips with the fact that my suddenly exhausted body is sometimes difficult to manage, and wondering how much more of this I can take. Luckily, those moments are fleeting and something like my talk with the grocery store employees or relaxing in our cozy house with a good book, because I’m pregnant, and you are certainly allowed to relax, restores my sense of calm.

When I left the store I stepped out into the cool air, loaded my bags into the trunk and upon getting into the driver’s seat realized that J had installed a base for our car seat in the back of my Hyundai and somehow I hadn’t noticed it until now. That, I thought, is where the baby will go. She is coming soon, and I can wait. I will happily continue struggling to bend over, rolling onto all fours when I need to get myself out of bed to waddle to the bathroom three or four times a night and I will go through 3,000 hours of labor and do whatever the doctors tell me to do, so that we can meet her.

“They should put more things in bread bowls.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Like cereal.”

“No. No way. Worst idea ever.”